


Embers of rebellion

by FakeCirilla9



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Compliant, Corruption, Daddy Issues, Everyone Has Issues, God Complex, Hate Sex, M/M, Mommy Issues, Seduction, Years of the Trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 04:08:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20352130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FakeCirilla9/pseuds/FakeCirilla9
Summary: An extended scene of Melkor visiting Fëanor in Formenos





	Embers of rebellion

**Author's Note:**

> There was non-con with these two from me, now here's an attempt at something healthier (though it's hardly possible with these two disasters 😂).
> 
> And, my dear readers, Melkor name is literally "He Who Arises in Might". Can you imagine how tempting it was to apply it in a porn fic? 😏
> 
> Jokes aside, have a nice reading. This is a serious story, I swear 😈

Fëanor was working in the forge, when Melkor came knocking on the window, wearing black clothes and a wide smile.

Fëanor's hammer hit minutely badly at the interruption, bending the metal not quite like he envisioned it. He swore. As the trespasser still lingered outside the architrave, Fëanor put down his work, came to the window and closed the blinds in Melkor’s grinning face.

The thing projected by his dear Curufinwë turned out to be good not only for blocking Telperion and Laurelin lights in their blossom, but to hide unpleasant people from sight too.

Fëanor hoped Melkor would just go away. Melkor did not.

The dark Vala tried the lockers next. (These were designed by Caranthir, who eagerly took up on developing his father's invention, as he was always wary of his possessions being safe from his brothers' mischief.) Fëanor shunned the scraping sounds out as an insignificant background noises, focused at the job at hand.

It was when he - after rereading gait and fanning fires to the precise temperature he wanted them to be in - was about to start his craftsmanship anew, that Melkor resolved to his favorite weapon of choice: speech.

"Tell me, Fëanaro, do you think the Valar are both immensely powerful and immensely good?"

Fëanor casted his unfinished work to the fires, sparks erupted in a fiery fountain; element hissed as a hungry beast when it encased precious metal, first flames licking at their prey.

The first son of Finwë marched to the doors and yanked them open. He glared at the unwelcome visitor.

“The obvious answer would be ‘yes’, but there is a catch.”

Melkor devoured the sight that arose in front of him with ravenous eyes: the elf was bristling, wearing not much more than a forge apron and a scowl on his beautiful face.

“You’re the catch,” the Noldo shoved him with an unapologetic finger. Melkor didn’t bulge, reveling in the touch.

“How so?” Melkor spurred the elf on.

“If the Valar are both good and almighty, they should get rid of you once and for all. Either they can’t do it, which casts doubt upon their invincibility or they won’t do it, which puts their goodness into question.”

“That’s my precious,” Melkor praised, beaming and trying to catch the retreating hand.

Fëanor wrenched his arm free of the Vala’s reach, disgust crawling onto his face.

“I’m not yours,” he snarled.

Melkor’s face clouded at the reminder, yet he quickly mastered himself, forcing back a pleasant expression, a fair form hiding his true self. Losing control now might easily ruin his carefully wrought plans. Melkor had spent a long time working hard to seclude Fëanor from others. The efforts were rewarded as more and more subjects distrusted the oldest Prince, his own wife left him and Valar themselves banished him from their parochial paradise. Seven offspring, as well as a ridiculously attached father, going to the exile with him were an unexpected hindrance. Still, it would be foolish to allow so much investment go to waste. For that reason Melkor kept his fair façade and smiled agreeably.

“Doesn’t it get lonely here?”

Fëanor narrowed his luminous grey eyes at the affable tone, sniffing a deception.

“No,” he replied, still scowling. “I have my sons and dad and grandson, all the family that I care for. And work to do. And the fruits of that work.”

“And where are these sons of yours?” Melkor looked around the tidy forge, filled with various crafts, from fine jewelry to hunting weapons. Everything could be found there, it seemed, sans the gems that really interested him. Blazing fire in the furnace melted some imperfect work in progress.

He looked back to the elf, raising his brow expectantly.

“...travelling,” Fëanor answered aversely.

“And noble Finwë?”

“It is not your call,” Fëanor’s ire rose in line with the heat filling his words. “But he’s resting, remembering Olwë. I would have you know,” the elf raised his chin defiantly, glaring in Melkor’s eyes despite their height difference, “that we spent much family time together.”

“You deliberately misunderstand me,” chided Melkor, meeting the intense gaze straight on.

“I do not.”

“Numerous sons, a father, a grandson – there is even third generation already. Yet, this family lacks women.”

„Don’t you dare to speak my mother’s name with your lying mouth!” Fëanor cried and in the forge the fire boosted, flames shot up momentarily, casting Fëanor’s face in an ominous dance of lights and shadows. Melkor watched it in awe, reminded of his Balrogs.

“Such unpleasantness,” the Vala clucked. “What would my flawless brother say, hearing them falling from your lips? And, for your information, I meant Nerdanel.”

Fëanor’s fists clenched, eyes gleamed with unshed emotions. The abandonment still hurt, her betrayal stung equally much like in the day she had chosen to stay behind in the golden cage of the Valar making, rather than to follow him to his castle. She had been growing bothersome, in truth, from some time, constantly meddling in his affairs, imposing her advices in matters that were too big for her. Even so, Fëanor missed her freckles and her easy laughter filling his house. He mourned the closeness they once shared.

In more happy times she would interfere his forge occupations with admonitions of how he worked too much, and he would not be angry, and soon he would have her bent over an anvil, unfinished jewelry abandoned, furnace fires growing cold.

Fëanor snapped out of these thoughts. That was in another life.

Melkor was watching him eagerly, leaning in in his personal space.

Fëanor was too proud to retreat, yet he quickly drew the mask of unconcern back on, hiding his emotions. He will not allow his enemy to see his weaknesses.

Yet it was too late.

“So I was right, you do miss it,” Melkor mused.

“And you came to mock me for it?” Fëanor yelled, his voice too high, too not mastered. Pathetic. How much more of his vulnerable side he will open before Melkor tonight?

“Why, no,” protested Melkor, touching his breast where a heart should be. “You always accuse me of such a vicious intentions. It hurts me. I have never given you any reason for them. I came for it may be in my power to offer you some comfort.”

Fëanor sneered.

“And how would you do that?” he mocked. “Enchant her to come back?”

“I did not think of her.” Melkor averted the eyes like molten silver briefly, glancing above Fëanor’s shoulder at the dying fire.

“Too bad,” Fëanor’s bravado rung insincere to a master of lies’ ears, “for I’m not my father to be satisfied with another woman than the mother of my children.”

“Must it be a woman?” Melkor whispered.

His question rendered Fëanor speechless and the Spirit of Fire was shocked into a halt long enough that allowed Melkor invade his intimate space without being refused. The Vala’s hand took a strand of the jet black hair and stroked its silk length, pale fingers interweaving with dark tresses.

“Did you know your hair absorb light from your surroundings? But instead of reflecting, it kills the brightness. It’s darker than a lightless night, dark as the sky was before Varda peppered it with stars.”

Only now Fëanor’s hand shot to Melkor’s, stopping his advances.

“What are you doing?” the elf demanded.

Melkor tried to touch his cheek, Fëanor held fast and turned his head out of Melkor’s grasp. Melkor settled for more or less holding hands as they were doing now, though some may argued it was closer to arm-wrestling. 

“You are not the only misunderstood castaway in Valinor.” Melkor said. “We could find solace in each other’s company even as others reject us.”

“I will not ally with you!” Fëanor’s cry of outrage was like a crack of burning wood.

“I do not ask it,” _yet_. “But we could give each other a bit of a reprieve that is to be found in carnal pleasure.”

Melkor’s eyes bore into Fëanor’s. At that times his black gaze was full of power yet and already inspiring terror in lesser beings. Yet Fëanor was not afraid. He did not back off a single step, and now their bodies almost touched, aligned with each other. The elf held his head darted up proudly as the Vala peered down at him.

The sexual arousal was present in the air between them like jolts of electricity in a gathering storm.

Melkor bent the one last inch separating them and kissed the daring mouth, that did not refrain from insulting him or blaspheming other Valar. Tongue invaded Fëanor’s mouth and the elf tried to push it out with his, which resulted in a mockery of a lover’s kiss.

Fëanor was repelled at being so close with the one he hated the most and yet there was something else too. The proximity of another’s body, the faint smell of a basalt, the earthy taste - all created an intoxicating mix. It was the first time someone touched him so sexually since he and Nerdanel parted ways. Sure there were his father's affectionate touches and some of his sons were more clingy than others, and the youngest member of family still climbed his lap, demanded attention and hugs, and snuggles… But they were all purely familial caresses, robbed of any trace of the most primal of instincts.

Before he knew it, Fëanor was kissing Melkor back. Elf’s hands tangled in a dark material of the other’s clothes, pulling him even closer.

When they parted, opening his eyes Fëanor could see, from such a small distance, Melkor’s robe wasn’t fully black, but changed colors with minute shifts of the owner. Once it gleamed sapphire, then glinted garnet, and son of Míriel Serinde could appreciate such finery.

Melkor’s hands untied leather straps of Fëanor’s garment impatiently, revealing more of the fair skin and soon the elf stood before him in breeches only, flat chest and smith’s arms opened to Melkor’s appreciation. Fëanor did not stay far behind, pulling impudently on the Vala’s silks. Skillful fingers unfastened clasps more gracefully than Melkor tugged at Fëanor’s trousers.

The elf wavered once Melkor grasped his half-hard manhood, encasing it in his big palm. He fondled it, teasing the elf. Smug smirk curled his mouth at the sound of not quite stifled moan that left Fëanor’s mouth.

Yet Spirit of Fire didn’t fancy being outdone and never backed away from a challenge. His hands rarely stayed unoccupied and so they found their way to Melkor’s shaft and started caressing it, not only mirroring Melkor's strokes, but adding innovation of his own.

Melkor hummed in content. Echoes of discord music could be heard in his voice, yet Fëanor did not heed it, elated his efforts could affect such a powerful being as the Vala was.

Their foreplay turned into a fierce rivalry. What one did, the other sought to better. Melkor pinched Fëanor’s nipple, tearing an undignified noise from him; Fëanor’s response was to rake his nails down the Vala’s back. Melkor rumbled and it was a sound like an earthquake, like the very rocks Arda was built from grated at each other. So their hips grinded together, as Melkor pressed them flush against each other.

There was a cot against the wall and Melkor pushed the elf there. Fëanor struggled, resisting the force instinctively, yet Melkor’s strength was far greater than any of the Eldar. He threw Fëanor there.

The elf’s eyes widened as he understood what Melkor intended. Fëanor might be equally innocent in such matters as any elf, yet he wasn’t stupid.

“You won’t cower now, will you?” said Melkor, knowing full well what effect his words will have upon the Elda.

And he wasn’t wrong. Where before there was a shadow of a doubt, now Fëanor’s eyes shone with steadfastness, nearly challenging Melkor into action.

In a fortress of Formenos he laid sprawled on a spacious bed before the great dark Vala. Opening his legs, throwing himself into the unknown, ready to take everything Melkor would give him.

Melkor steeped down to him. From his impressive heights he descended toward the lithe elf, his mighty member aroused in a power of creating life.

(But it was not for the purpose of creating life what they were doing. It was only corrupting Eru's original intentions. Melkor was set on finding many such notions he thought were of his own imagination and bringing them to life.)

The moment Melkor entered him, it flickered through Fëanor's mind he'd be unable to cope with it. But the persisting spirit Eru gifted him with could withstand much.

Melkor wanted to possess, to own and subjugate all creation of Eru. With little thoughts spared on how the creation itself felt toward it. Likewise now he held the Elda's quivering hips, pushing himself inside as far as it would go, (for his credit he took on a small fana, only a head or one and a half taller than highest of the Eldar. He preferred heights allowing to peer above mountains, but that would not do for his purposes here) ignoring the way Fëanor's face was twisted in pain rather than in bliss.

Never liking idleness, Melkor started to thrust almost immediately. Fëanor's whole frame rocked from the force of it. His hands scrambled on bed silk covers too sleek to find a purchase. He resorted to encircling Melkor’s waist with his legs. He gritted his teeth, as his insides burnt even more at his wriggling, but it gave him some anchor at least.

Melkor’s face above him was a picture of carnal satisfaction: mouth slack, eyes half closed, expression in them hazed by delight.

Fëanor snarled. He would not beg.

But he would demand.

"Wait," he gritted.

Melkor’s eyes refocused on him. Large palms grabbed Fëanor's that were trying to push the wide chest away. Displeasure at being disobeyed darkened otherwise handsome face.

"What is it?" Melkor growled, "you go back on your word?"

"I have not given you any word, deceiver. But nor am I a coward. I do not change a course of action once taken."

"Then what's your problem?" Melkor huffed, annoyed by the elf’s whining.

"Stop moving."

Melkor did not.

"Stop. Moving."

And such was the power of his voice and gaze combined that Melkor did.

Fëanor did not think to thank. He took the moment to calm his disturbed fëa. With it his body relaxed as well. Melkor’s length ceased being unbearable. When Fëanor deemed himself poised to continue, he buckled his hips himself and Melkor took on a cue. 

It was still overwhelming a bit and unnatural to be filled so, taken as a woman. Yet some exhilaration at the thought he was able to do this alleviated it.

Now Melkor's thrusts, still too firm, still too impatient, alongside discomfort caused something else. One shove hit something inside him, eliciting a spark of pure bliss. Fëanor did his best to direct his hips like that the next thrust… _oh yes, that was good_. His breathing accelerated as Melkor's pumps now stirred something inside him.

There was some dark desire waking to life in him, so akin to what he felt with Nerdanel, and yet so different. The pleasure was growing deep inside him, in his belly rather than in his groin.

Melkor's movements fanned it steadily until occasional sparks of joy became a steady, strong fire.

Fëanor moaned, wriggled beneath the body larger and stronger than his own. Melkor panted with excitement, looking down at his praise, taking it, claiming as his own in a way his coward of a brother would never even think of doing. He gathered the elf in his arms, needing to feel him closer, to touch more of him, to possess him wholly and utterly - it'd be so easy now to steal him to Angband now.

Fëanor's breath was harsh at the crook of his neck, burned the Vala’s skin. Nails like littlest dragon’s claws pierced his fair form. Limbs clung to him, lithe body snugged to his until there was no space between them where Manwë’s air could fit in.

Fëanor's member pressed hard between their bellies. The fire filling him was now a conflagration he wondered what would be required to quench. It was building up, raising, roaring like flames; climbing higher and higher, clouding his mind with smoke, until the wisest among the Eldar could think no more.

Melkor pinned the hot body to the matters, held it with his force, tamed it with violent thrusts. He finally had what he lusted for for so long. Dominating the flickering life of Fëanor was like embracing a particle of Flame Imperishable.

The thought made him come.

Little change in the rhythm, jerking, rougher yet thrusts made the fire that was consuming Fëanor erupt like a volcano. The destroying force of chaos robbed him of strength as his seed stained their chests. Melkor’s manhood throbbed in him, shooting semen. It burnt like magma.

Fëanor could not do much as Melkor withdrew from him, arranging him on the bed like a puppet. The Vala’s fana was not liable to an Elda’s body limitations.

Melkor stared at the pale skin glistening in sweat. It seemed almost silver now, as Laurelin closed its petals and only Telperion illuminated it. Melkor felt a surge of jealousy that Yavanna’s lights should always caress his elf’s skin. He needed to do something about that.

“You should be lit by nothing sans fire of your Silmarils,” he told the elf.

Here though he overdid it and Fëanor’s passionate stare pierced through the beautiful disguise to the secrets hidden in Melkor’s black heart. Fëanor saw that the dark Vala desired his Silmarils. Wrath awoke in Fëanor at that.

“You want my Silmarils yet they will never be yours! Be gone from my house, thief!”

And as he was, fully naked he darted from the bed and threw Melkor out of his dwelling. And Melkor departed, taking on a form of a cloud storm and ruining Yavanna’s crops on his way.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always appreciated!


End file.
